A week had passed. The Melaka Sentral Bus Station was a controlled chaos of sound and scent: the heavy smell of diesel and sun-warmed concrete, the constant, low indistinct murmur of hundreds of students, and the occasional, jarring crackling loudspeaker announcement from the teachers.
The waiting area was a landscape of worn-out seats. Students were scattered everywhere, clutching travel bags like lifelines. Vendors, with their trays of bottled water, snacks, and cheap chargers, called out their prices, their voices fighting the deep hum of engines revving outside.
"Attention! Everyone assigned to bus #14 and #16, please board immediately. We are departing in a few minutes!"
At the center of the throng, T. Myrcella, a visibly hardworking teacher, efficiently directed the stream of students.
In this momentary pause between destinations, life felt both hurried and lingering. Every face—etched with impatience, excitement, or exhaustion—was bound by the same imminent journey. The station was just a conduit, yet in this brief space, significant moments were about to unfold, particularly for one group.
"...Trizha? Is that really you?"
Wyne and Margaret were standing ready for departure when they spotted their friend. Both were momentarily stunned. Trizha was wearing an elaborate, flamboyant summer dress, complete with a wide-brimmed sunhat, as if preparing to step onto a beach resort instead of a long-haul bus.
"Hey, guys! What do you think?" Trizha asked, beaming.
She gave a quick spin. The colorful fabric of her dress billowed out in a wide spiral around her as she nearly lost her grip on the hat.
Wyne's gaze traveled slowly, taking in the full effect. "Trizha," she said, her voice soft but incredulous, "you do realize we are getting on a bus, right? Not a private jet to the Maldives?"
"Yep!" Trizha chirped back, completely undeterred.
"Then what is with the… fashion statement?"
"Just a habit, I guess."
A familiar, unsettling voice cut through their exchange.
"Girls who wear fancy clothes are often the targets of kidnappers… What are the chances you're being watched right now?" Margaret's eyes, framed by her dark hair, narrowed slightly.
Wyne sighed, crossing her arms. "Margaret, there are hundreds of us here. No one is going to risk stalking Trizha in this crowd."
"Yeah, besides, if they wanted to kidnap me, they should have done it ages ago!" Trizha added, dismissively.
"Be that as it may," Margaret said, turning her head slowly to her right and raising a finger. "It seems someone is already staring at us."
Wyne and Trizha immediately whipped their heads around to look where Margaret was pointing. They found themselves staring at T. Jaime, one of the male teachers, who was busy guiding a nearby cluster of students to their buses.
Noticing their intense gaze, T. Jaime raised a puzzled brow. "Oh, is there anything wrong, children?"
Margaret slowly lowered her finger, her expression just as confused as his. "...Oh, wrong guy," she muttered.
The trio quickly shook their heads in response to the teacher's question. T. Jaime gave a kind nod and moved on to his task.
"Margaret, you can't just accuse Sir Jaime of being a kidnapper!" Wyne hissed, frowning at her.
"I wasn't pointing at him. I swore there was a cloaked figure staring at us earlier…" Margaret insisted. Her gaze remained fixed on the empty spot where T. Jaime had been standing moments before. She looked genuinely troubled.
Wyne rolled her eyes. "A cloaked guy? You and Trizha need to lay off the horror movies. Come on, our bus is about to leave."
Wyne started to move, but Trizha stood motionless for a moment longer, staring in the same direction. She had also felt it—a distinct presence other than the teacher's. And somehow, that presence felt deeply familiar.
"Wake up. Frantzes. It's been too long."
A sharp, deafening ring suddenly drilled into Trizha's head, forcing a pained groan from her lips. She staggered backward, clutching her temples.
"Aah—what the—"
Losing her footing completely, she began to tip over.
"Whoa—"
Wyne turned back in panic and lunged forward, her eyes wide, but she was fractionally too slow.
Then, the world seemed to freeze.
In that suspended moment, someone appeared. Trizha didn't hit the ground; she was instantly caught. Her eyes flew open and found herself supported by a man whose presence was unnerving. His cloak was moving as if alive, stirred by a non-existent draft. The heavy fabric rippled in slow, fluid waves, catching the harsh station light like shifting shadows.
"Ah-haha, th-thank you, whoever…" Trizha stammered, relieved but still disoriented.
She looked up, taking in the details of the one who caught her.
Short, dark hair.
Intensely focused, cat-like eyes.
A serious, almost severe expression.
The hood of the cloak partially shadowed his face, yet she could see him clearly.
That face. It was exactly who she suspected, yet he didn't feel the same. He had the distinct look of an older man, and what little she could see of his right arm appeared to be coated in dark, segmented, armor-like skin.
Fear, cold and sharp, gripped her. This was the cloaked man Margaret had mentioned—and he looked like someone from her past.
She tried to scream, but her throat was locked. She tried to move, but her muscles wouldn't obey. Her instincts, the deep, primal part of her, screamed that this encounter shouldn't be happening—not in this normal, romance-novel world. It was something out of a fevered fantasy.
Just as she was about to completely snap, the man spoke. His voice was a low, rough rumble.
"Do remember one thing; you will always fight, not just for the sake of your fate, but your fate itself as well. Survive this time, Frantzes Trizha…"
***
"...fine."
***
A single word. A voice escaped Trizha's lips, but it wasn't hers. It was a voice that held ancient resignation, a tone of absolute surrender, uttered without her consent.
The sudden, alien sound broke the spell. Trizha finally snapped.
"Get off me!"
Her body moved violently, purely on instinct, shoving the old man away. The world unfroze in an instant.
She stumbled back, nearly falling again, but Wyne's hands caught her shoulders from behind.
"Trizha, are you okay? What happened?" Wyne asked, her concern overriding her earlier annoyance.
Trizha shook her head, trying to clear the sudden, painful fog. When she focused, the man standing before her was Nomoro. He had been the one who caught her fall.
She breathed heavily, staring into Nomoro's familiar cat-like eyes, which held a fleeting, unreadable expression. He simply gave a sharp, single nod and walked away without a word. Trizha stood there, utterly lost, the vision of the cloaked man already starting to blur in her memory.
"Trizha, why did you push him away like that? He just saved you!" Wyne exclaimed, exasperated.
"But he just...! He... he just…" Trizha murmured, trying desperately to recall the man's words, the strange armor, the frozen moment. But it was all slipping away, replaced by the mundane memory of just Nomoro. "I... nothing. I just got scared is all."
Wyne threw her hands up in frustration.
"Alright, that's enough. Let's go, we're late." She gave Trizha a small, irritated shove toward the bus door.
Wyne grabbed her things and headed for the bus, leaving Trizha confused by the sudden, sharp anger.
"Why did she just…"
"You're still masking everything," Margaret said flatly, walking past Trizha and onto the bus.
"Hey, what do you mean masking? Hey, don't leave me!"
Trizha hurried after Margaret, the trio finally boarding Bus #16.
Inside, the loud murmurs of the students intensified, filled with laughter, chatter, and excitement as they buckled themselves in.
Trizha secured her summer hat as she moved down the aisle. Her eyes scanned the seats, landing briefly on Nomoro, who was already sitting alone in the last row.
The strange, disturbing event at the door had disrupted the rush of emotion she should have been feeling—another layer of shame over her outfit and public clumsiness. Instead, she made a silent, internal decision: she deliberately looked away from Nomoro, then quickly found and sat in her assigned seat.
A moment later, T. Myrcella entered the bus and clapped loudly.
"Alright, alright! Everyone accounted for!?"
"Yes Ma'am!" the students shouted back in ragged unison.
"Good! I hope you said your goodbyes to your relatives—because you're not seeing them for a week. The only person you'll see is me, got it? So you better watch yourselves and your environment." The teacher leaned back against the central pole, her gaze sweeping over every student.
"I'm not saying this just to scare you," she continued, her voice dropping slightly, "I'm telling you all to look out for yourselves because soon, we're entering the Calypso Residence: The La Luna Sangre Hotel!"
Trizha was hanging on to every word of her advisor's warning, but she was interrupted as Wyne plopped down in the seat next to her.
"Heya, Trizha," Wyne greeted, a casual smile replacing her frown.
"Wyne? I thought you were sitting next to Margaret?"
"Nah. I want to spend the last few hours of our solitude alone before I have to spend an entire week with Margaret's doom-and-gloom commentary."
"Hmm. Can't tell if you're being considerate or sarcastic... But, weren't you mad at me? You shoved me earlier," Trizha said, looking at her friend skeptically.
"Just upset, lately. Don't worry about it too much." Wyne gave a casual shrug, then pulled a pair of wireless earphones from her bag, handing one to Trizha.
"Anyway, it's loud out here. Let's listen to music, shall we? Don't want to listen to T. Myrcella shouting all the way there."
"Yeah, sure… Oh well. Not that it matters anyway," Trizha mumbled, accepting the earphone.
"Why not?"
"I mean, we are entering quite a dangerous place, aren't we?"
Wyne paused, then gave a firm nod. "I guess so. Let's just… stick together."
"Yeah."
Trizha put the earphone in her right ear, then leaned her head against the bus window. She watched as their bus, following a convoy of others, drove out of the station, all of them heading toward a single destination: the establishment of Yuri Calypso.
Then, as another bus drove past their window, the cloaked old man reappeared for a brief, flashing moment, only to vanish into the passing traffic.
It wasn't Trizha who saw him this time—it was someone else entirely. Someone who was also her.